


Life

by satin_doll



Series: Life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Part One of Life Series, Sherlolly - Freeform, Simple Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 10:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11355177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll





	Life

Molly watched as Sherlock popped a piece of cold potato into his mouth. He stood in front of the fridge with the door open, eyes downcast, staring at the yellow bowl he was holding. He didn’t look at her as he picked another bit of potato from the bowl.

She’d been just drifting off to sleep when she heard him come in. Usually he came straight upstairs to the bedroom if she wasn’t waiting up for him. 

“Sherlock…?” 

His posture was rigid, and apart from the mechanical fishing of bits of leftover potato and putting them into his mouth, he didn’t move at all. 

Should he tell her? What could he say? 

_A small hand curled protectively around a cheap heart-shaped locket. Deep blue eyes, not yet clouded, staring up at the stars. Bruises...lots of bruises...cuts…_

He chewed the greasy chunk of food, swallowed. Blinked slowly. No. Not yet.

Molly watched him, waiting, as he dipped his fingers into the bowl again.

_She couldn’t have been more than twelve. Arms and legs stick-like, ribs showing through the thin vest she wore. There was a cut under her eye. A small tattoo of a rose or some sort of flower on her bony shoulder..._

“I could heat those up for you if you like. Or fix you something else.” Molly could feel the tension rolling off him. It must have been a bad one. 

He didn’t answer, continued staring silently down at the bowl in his hand. 

_Blood pooling underneath stringy, dirty blond hair. No shoes._

He finished the last bite of potato, trailed one finger in the grease left in the bottom of the bowl, took a deep breath that came in with a little shudder to it. He turned, walked to the sink and set the bowl in it, ran some hot water and rinsed his fingers. When he turned to face Molly, his mouth opened, but no words were there. 

She came to him then, slid her arms around him under his coat, pressed herself tightly against him. He rested his chin on the top of her head, slid his hands down her back and clasped them at her waist. 

“Was it bad?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest. 

He sighed, closed his eyes, tried not to see the little broken body lying in the alley, tried to concentrate on the warmth of Molly’s body against him. 

“Sometimes…” he said softly, “sometimes life just calls for cold greasy fried potatoes.”


End file.
